


You Know My Name

by Shirley_Templar



Series: casino royale [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: "bad guys" are Templars, And Shay is his bodyguard/boyfriend, Casino aesthetic, Connor is conflicted, Delinquent turned spy prodigy!Connor, James Bond AU, M!Achilles, MI6 agents are Assassins, Multi, Mysterious fancy supervillain! Haytham, Mysterious! Shay, Yes Haytham is the classic Bond villian, we STAN, yes you heard that right
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2020-12-07 22:16:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20983265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shirley_Templar/pseuds/Shirley_Templar
Summary: Connor, a teenager with little-to-no inhibitions and an extensive school suspension record gets practically abducted by MI6. He gets to meet the Father He Thought Was Dead through the pages of a criminal case file, puts on a fancy suit and is dragged into the dangerous but oh-so-tempting criminal underworld where the rich go to die.





	1. If You Take a Life Do You Know What You'll Give?

**Author's Note:**

> Work Title and chapter titles from You Know My Name by Chris Cornell, the opening theme to the movie Casino Royale.

Exactly one month, two days and four hours ago, a man in a black suit knocked on the door of the little cabin Connor shared with his grandmother and insisted he come with him. The boy of not-quite-nineteen had no idea if this was legal, but he was shipped off to London with a duffel bag full of essentials and an all-access pass to MI6, the British Intelligence Agency.

Connor was unsure of whether to be happy he had successfully invaded what was definitely the plot of some Hollywood blockbuster, or upset that he had been trafficked the whole way across the Atlantic like dangerous chattel. What he was sure about was that he had been treated like a new recruit. Put through basic training (easy), marksmanship (easier), and brushed off flattery seventy-two times with the simple phrase “I hunt”. 

It wasn’t long before he was forced into a not-great fitting charcoal suit and marched up to the Big Man Upstairs. 

Connor heard from someone that they used to use codenames, but there was no use ever since the Incident. Connor wondered what the Incident was, and also why Mr. Achilles Davenport was staring at him with an expectant glare, but he knew better than to ask.

He subconsciously fiddled with the ends of his thick, black hair. 

“I’ve got a favor to ask of you, boy.”

Connor met his gaze. 

“There’s a man that I need to get rid of, and it just so happens to be your father.”

“My father is dead.” He growled, repeating what his mother had told him when he was old enough to understand. She had told him more, of course- like how his smiles were always little smirks paired with a jolly glint in his eye, like he was letting you in on a secret, or how he tied his molasses-dark hair up and bit his lip when hard at work. These anecdotes were the only thing he had of the father whom he had never known, and he treasured them like one might treasure a photo album. 

“I wish, boy! If he was dead, half of my best men wouldn’t be floating corpses in the Caribbean!” Achilles grumbled and rubbed his temples, then finally paused to grab a file and practically throw it at Connor. 

_ Haytham Kenway _ , it read across the top in bold font. Below was a list of characteristics and a few photos of a man with shoulder-length black hair and high cheekbones- one of those guys who look like they should be a celebrity, a pretty enough picture to put on the cover of some sort of gay version of Playboy, whether that existed or not. Ew, Connor did not want to think about horny teenagers getting off to a picture of the dad he only just found out existed. Gross. 

The old man sighed.

“As much as I hate it, we need you to get close to Kenway. Not kill him, at least not yet, just get us the information we need about his little crime ring. Got it?” Achilles sounded tired, like he needed a few cups of coffee and maybe some alcohol, too.

“Why me?”

“Well first of all, dimwit, you’re his goddamn long-lost son. Isn’t that just a perfect storybook ending? Anyways, the last agent we sent didn’t come back. I’d rather not risk a perfectly good agent that I’ll very much need later, if you succeed.” 

Connor was subsequently shooed out of the office with those ominous words stuck in his head. He continued to think about the “last agent” all through the day, the week, even when he was practically being stuck like a pig during a suit-fitting that would hopefully look better than the last one. He kept thinking about these words, in fact, up until he sat down at the bar of a glamorous casino, fiddling with his vaguely itchy starched collar and counting the hours until his inevitable demise.

“You look like you could use a refill.”

The bartender had an Irish accent and a heart-shaped face, his unremarkable brown hair tied up in a ponytail. The uniform looked good on him, black trousers and button-up with a fitted red waistcoat. Connor could see the beginnings of what looked to be a rather fine left buttock, but could look no longer without causing his face to superheat to the relative temperature of the earth’s core. He made no comment and slid his empty glass of brandy to the bartender with the pretty hazel eyes and attractive body. The melting ice made a sound like fairy bells when it hit the glass. 

Connor’s wet dream slid the glass back, topped off with that glorious amber liquid. He put back half of it in a confident swig, and tried to muffle his coughing as fire crept down his throat. 

“Not much of a drinker, are ya?” 

The Native American grunted noncommittally in response, and fled from the bar as soon as the bartender lost interest and left. His remaining brandy was dumped surreptitiously into a potted plant, and the glass was left on a high table. He had a target to locate, after all, and being any tipsier certainly would not help. 

He spotted the bartender, again- carrying a whiskey on the rocks to the exact person he had been looking for.

Haytham was playing poker at a large table, half the chips in the game stacked up in front of him like the fortifications of some ancient castle. His steel-blue blazer was thrown over the back of the chair he was sprawled out on. His white shirt wasn’t buttoned up the whole way, and the lone woman at the table stared with unabashed hunger at his father’s exposed clavicle. 

Haytham’s hair was a bit more grey than in the photos, but not unattractively so, and his eyes still hold that sly sparkle. Is this what his mother had seen?

He took the glass offered by the Irish bartender, and whispered something in his ear that coaxed him into his lap. Connor felt a warm flush spill into his face. 

Haytham slammed his cards down and apparently the hand was a winner, because the other players sighed and left the table when he pushed the chips at the center of the table towards him. 

Connor had been slowly making his way to said table, blending in with small groups of people. The heady scent of alcohol and the loud sound of chatter did nothing to mask the fact that he could most definitely feel eyes on him. They bored holes through skin, muscle, bone. No part of him was safe- he was in a den of wolves. 

“You’re Connor.” Haytham says, his voice a syrupy baritone. The teenager turned around and stared at him in disbelief. Haytham lightly pushed the bartender off his lap. “I thought you were coming.” 

The Irishmen whined when he was deposed from his throne, but he peered at Connor with curious eyes. “He does take after you, doesn’t he? Right handsome lad. Cute, too.” 

He spluttered and reached for a response that did not exist.

His father chuckled and stood up, throwing his blazer over his shoulders in a way that was simultaneously stylish and impractical. Indeed, his nose was just as straight, his brow just as pronounced, the curve of his Cupid’s bow just as deep. The only difference? Connor was practically a spy intern and Haytham was a ruthless killer. 

“Do stop embarrassing the poor boy, Shay. Obviously he’s not used to such comments from dashing rogues like yourself. It’s not everyday one gets complimented so thoroughly by a criminal, after all.” The bartender, Shay, smiled and shrugged.

“Sorry, sir. Can’t help it. I’ll refrain from attacking your son’s composure any more.” 

“Good boy.” Shay was rewarded with a pat on the head. “Now, Connor...” his father’s startlingly grey eyes met his own warm umber ones. They thundered and stormed like a hurricane. “I regret not getting to you before Achilles. I’d prefer you to hear my side of the story, as well, so you can differentiate between the truth and the absolute dog shit he’s most certainly been feeding you. Tomorrow morning, eight-o-clock, six-oh-four Second Avenue. Deal?”

“How do I know this isn’t a trap?” He said, as it was only sensible. Haytham clicked his tongue. 

“Smart lad. You’ll just have to trust me on this one. Rest assured, I wouldn’t try anything in a public place. Can’t risk that much collateral.” A barely noticeable twitch ran through Shay, but it was enough to make Haytham put his hand on his shoulder and rub comforting circles. Shay leaned into the touch like a friendly cat.

“Fine.” Connor said. 

“Deal.”

The mirage that was his father soon disappeared into a cloud of cigarette smoke.


	2. Odds are You Won't Like What it is...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave some comments if you enjoyed, I'm dying to know what y'all think.
> 
> And thanks for all the kudos!! This is my first published work in the AC fandom, so I was a bit nervous but the reception turned out to be definitely better than I thought!

It wasn’t by accident that Achilles knew the exact casino in uptown Dublin that he’d be that night. Haytham had been leaving a little trail of crumbs for the mice at MI6 to follow since he’d caught wind of their recent exploits.

Namely, the apparent abduction of his bastard child.

Should he find it flattering that Achilles so cared about the places his dick had been?

Any other man probably would have felt a bit guilty, or embarrassed, to have their failures sent right to their doorstep. But to Haytham, Connor was no failure. He’d been keeping track of the boy since he was born. He knew about the school suspensions, the expulsions, the fisticuffs, the drinking, the general unagreeable-ness, and had very much enjoyed picturing a miniature version of his own father. 

He was not quite surprised and not quite disappointed when his hapless spawn appeared in front of him with a red face and a shaky voice. His apparent crush on Shay was all sorts of amusing (Haytham was by no means a jealous man), if only a bit worrying. Having shown his hand so early in the game, there was no doubt the boy would suffer from his father’s exact flaws. The apple never did fall from the tree, did it?

Shay had mentioned that Connor looked like him (and yes, the lucky child had been blessed with the Kenway nose), all he could see was Ziio. Her high, defined cheekbones, her hair that never quite stayed in place, her goddamn resting bitch face. What had he done to receive such a curse from the universe? Were his crimes that heinous, that reprehensible?

“What do you think of him, sir?” Shay asked, in that lovely voice of his (indeed, Shay had such a lovely way of doing everything). He was dark-chocolate-and-strawberries and Haytham was those little chocolates filled with vodka, ten of which he had ingested as a child of eight years and ten of which he had vomited up immediately afterward. 

“Even you can realize that’s lousy pillow-talk, right?” Haytham grumbled and looked up from his rather worn copy of Upton Sinclair’s  _ The Jungle _ . His tortoiseshell-patterned glasses that were so rarely on his face sat low on his nose, so he could look over them in a patronizing way, not unlike a disapproving librarian. Shay had no love for books, as he had often said, and shot him a frown. 

“Haytham, I’m worried. Achilles wants something, that’s why he sent the kid.”

“If he’s my son, then he’s no idiot. Kenways don’t take orders from strange men they barely know.”

“Aye, Kenways don’t take orders from anyone.” Haytham chuckled at the (surely true) statement and closed his book. “But, seriously- what if he gets himself killed?”

“You didn’t seem to care about this when he almost died of embarrassment from your flirting.” Shay grumbled at him and kicked at his feet. Haytham took his hand in his own and looked into his eyes. “He’ll be fine, as long as he doesn’t do anything rash. I swear it.” Shay sighed and locked their fingers together.

“I just don’t want any more blood on my hands. Or yours, for that matter.”

“I promise, Shay. No harm will come to him on my watch.”

“Alright. You better keep this one.”

“Good. Can we have sex now?”

“I hate you.”

The next morning, Haytham walked into the kitchen with a rather ridiculous-looking bathrobe and a grey towel that he ruffled his wet mane with. He was very tired (Shay likes to wake up at the ridiculous time of six-thirty, and Haytham needs his beauty sleep), and desperately needed a cup of the Earl Grey brewing in the oversized electric kettle. They always kept their little Dublin flat stocked with enough tea to flavor the entire Atlantic. 

Shay was making omelets with his hair in a tiny bun, looking way too happy for someone who got up at six-thirty. 

“‘Morning, sleeping beauty.” Haytham groaned and flicked his shoulder. “Should I bring a gun? To the café? Just in case?”

“You probably should. Achilles is a scheming bastard.”

“Do you want me to get Jack and Chris? They could go incognito if you’re worried about MI6.”

Haytham waves a hand. “No, we’ll be fine. I don’t want the boy to feel nervous. He’s bound to notice two heavily armed men pretending to be coffee shop hipsters.” Shay snorted and went back to his cooking. 

*

The coffee shop was small, quaint, and decidedly unexpected for a choice of meeting place. Then again, Connor hadn’t really been sure of what he had expected when he came to the address. Perhaps to get dragged into a dark, dingy alley and stabbed to death? 

There were students and office workers typing away at laptops, and a few people chatting and sipping their… Espressos? Connor didn’t make a habit of drinking coffee. He ordered a cup of apple spice tea with milk and two sugars, thank you, and the dark-skinned girl working the counter smiled at him and drew a little heart on his cup. 

He didn’t recognize Haytham when he first walked in, but Shay caught his eye soon enough. 

The Irishman had on ripped black jeans and a Harvard sweatshirt, and his hair was tied up cutely in a high bun (oh, how Connor wished his own hair would cooperate for such a feat). He had the same twinkle in his eye from last night but also looked tired, like he hadn’t gotten much sleep but was chugging along, anyway.

Haytham, meanwhile, was practically unrecognizable. A messy bun,wide-framed tortoiseshell glasses- who was this man and what had he done with the clean, slick fox from last night? He still had a particularly iconic knowing smirk plastered on his face, which ticked Connor off for reasons he did not understand. No longer was his vision obscured by the heady scent of expensive alcohol, drugs, and sex, no longer did he stare through a filter of rose-tinted smoke. Instead he saw his father, the man, without the suit and the poker chips. Stripped of his riches, he looked like every other stuck-up white boy that Connor had punched at school. 

“Hey, kiddo,” Shay slid into his booth with all the voracity of a large puppy that had just come back from the kennel. Haytham gave him A Look and went to get coffee. “-why are you staring at Hayth like you want to kill him?”

Connor’s fingernails made crescent-shaped indents in his styrofoam cup, and his eyes bored holes into the table. He mumbled something, and even he didn’t know what he was saying.

“Mm, hangover? That’s what happens, you know.” Haytham returned with a sarcastic tone and two cups. The one he passed to Shay was piled with more whipped cream and chocolate chips than beverage, but to each his own. Haytham’s smelled strongly of straight, black coffee. “No offense, but you don’t seem like you have much experience with that sort of thing.”

Connor grunted and glanced at his father’s haughty expression. Haytham smiled, an action that was perhaps meant to be placating, but instead reeked of smug arrogance. 

“Now, son, what has Achilles told you?” As Haytham asked this, Shay fiddled with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. A nervous tick, perhaps. He appeared taught and strung-up, like someone had a gun pressed against his head. 

Connor wondered for a moment what he should say, or if he should say anything at all. Should he tell the truth?

“He said he wanted to get rid of you. He implied you were dangerous. That’s it.” Not quite, but close enough.

Haytham sipped his coffee.

“Unfortunately for him, I think I’ll be sticking around for a good while, or at least until my bank accounts stop collecting interest. Oh, don’t look at me like that- do you know how much I’ve spent in child support payments?”

“To be fair, sir, it’s sort of your fault you had a kid.”

“That was a joke, Shay. It was supposed to be funny.” Haytham sighed and Shay offered up a small smile as penance. “-anyways, whatever Achilles promised you as compensation I can match and most definitely surpass. In return, I’d like you to give me the opportunity to earn your trust.”

“Agent, 3 o'clock.” Shay mumbled. Indeed, Connor could see a suspicious character out of the corner of his eye. He recognized her from his short introduction to MI6. 009. Was her name Hope, perhaps? 

Haytham sighed and looked longingly at his coffee.

“We’ll have to cut this meeting short, it seems. Pack your shit, go to Dublin Airport, seven AM sharp. We’ll find you. Don’t be followed, and don’t try anything funny.” With that, Haytham and Shay got up and left. 

Connor sent one of his infamous death-glares to the agent across the room.


	3. When the Storm Arrives, Would You be Seen with Me?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late and small chap, I fell asleep while writing this on three separate occasions. Do not despair, for next chapter is a big one!

“I had that!” He growled at Hope. She’s wearing a black pencil skirt and a cream-colored blouse. Her scarlet lipstick has been applied liberally. 

“Achilles changed his mind. He wants you to stay off this assignment until further notice. We’ll take it from here.” Her voice was cold and unfeeling, reminding Connor of teachers he always got in trouble with in middle school. 

“You know how close I am to getting that information? He trusts me. He. Trusts. Me.” The subject of the phrase did not need to be spoken to be understood. “Tell Achilles I’m not backing off. Got it?”

Hope raised her eyebrows but nodded and turned. Her stilettos  _ click-clacked  _ on sidewalk’s pavement. The noise rang in his ears for hours.

Connor went back to the hotel room he had booked and stared at the meager offerings his suitcase provided. His gaze lingered on the pistol with the matching rounds, and he wondered how he’d get that through airport security. 

Or, what if he had to use it? Against another human being?

He could simply not imagine his father’s or Shay’s blood pooling behind their heads. He wasn’t that strong yet, but he’d learn. Perhaps he would be, someday.

His sleep was short and fitful, nightmarish visions prowled in the dark of his room and unsheathed their claws whenever he closed his eyes. The bed linens were cold and scratchy, and the mattress was stiff and unyielding (not unlike himself, honestly).

In the morning he woke up with dark circles and heavy lids. Why was it so much easier to sleep with the sun blazed beyond his curtains?

The airport was drafty and crowded. He lingered outside the metal detectors (he was not ready to do that with so many weapons thrown in his bags), but soon spotted Shay, looking cozy in a thick wool scarf. The black, knee-length cost he was wearing stood out against the pale skin of his hands, and the scarf’s bright scarlet highlighted the color that so often bloomed rosily on his face. He briskly walked over to the Irishman, who gave him a small chuckle.

“You afraid of the metal detectors, laddie? Not to worry, we’ve got a private jet, no baggage check necessary.” Shay claps a hand on his back and he’s sure it’s mostly to push his disoriented body in the right direction. Today, Connor noticed he had a thin ring on his other hand- gold, with a small, red cross pattée etched into it, and Celtic knots swirling and twisting down the sides. It’d be tacky if it didn’t look so damn detailed.

As Shay said, Connor does not have to brave airport security, and they reach a sleek little black plane in a fairly empty strip with no fanfare. 

“Shay! Is this the kid?” A man with a distinctly American accent and a voice like a baseball announcer greeted them. He scratched his thick beard and adjusted an almost cowboy-like hat atop his dark, chin-length hair. Like Shay, he had a scarf around his neck, although it was more burgundy than red and square, layered around his neck and tied bandana-style. 

“Connor, this is Christopher Gist. He’ll be flying you today. And yes, I didn’t know he conveniently could fly a plane until three AM today. Gist, this is Connor.”

Gist greeted him and shook his hand heartily. Connor can feel the calluses on his fingers. 

“Well,” Gist started, “His most illustrious and benevolent majesty awaits you.” The American is rewarded with a flick on his shoulder from Shay. “Hey! You, of all people, should know he totally gets off on that sort of stuff!” Connor blocked the image from his mind and climbed the small steps to the inside of the plane.

His father was lounging on a white, faux-leather seat with a fluffy blue blanket thrown over his shoulders. Plato’s  _ Symposium  _ was in his hand and Carlyle’s  _ Frederick the Great  _ was conveniently on top of a stack of… celebrity tabloids and Italian Vogue?

“Don’t look at me like that,” the Brit hissed. “I’m cold.” 

Connor took the seat across from him and stuffed his suitcase someplace it wouldn’t be jostled from. 

Haytham looked sophisticated, as always, even if there were a few strands of hair coming loose from his elastic and his tie has been loosened so much that it no longer counts as a tie. Connor was reminded of a polaroid he once saw hidden away in a dresser drawer, of his father with a few less grey hairs and a black-and-pale-yellow long sleeve Nirvana shirt. 

“Where are we going?” Connor asked, after they took off. Shay had disappeared into the pilot’s cabin. His father hums and continues to leaf through the worn pages of his book.

“Before he passed, my father left me the Kenway estate. It’s a quaint little villa, on the coast of Devon. There’s an old family legend that our ancestors were pirates who bought it with money they, ah, liberated.” He flipped another page with a faint whooshing sound. “I spent my summers there, as a boy, before Father died and I was shipped off to Eton. I don’t go there often anymore, but I keep a staff on payroll and I  _ did _ leave it to you in my will…” Haytham trailed off, and his thoughts were lost amid the yellowed pages of the  _ Symposium _ . 

Connor stared out the rounded window, watching the Emerald Isle escape behind the clouds. Ireland was beautiful from above. He wished he had the chance to savor it.

(Instead, his mind was bleeding with the fact that all of them may not leave the villa with their lives). 


	4. From the Merciless Eyes I've Deceived

England was cold, wet, and dreary. 

Clouds hung, dark and fat with rain, low over the Devon countryside. They chased the sun over the sea like hunting hounds after a scent. The smell of salt sunk into one’s skin and the sound of waves crashing upon rocky shores rang through one’s bones. 

It was grey, it was damp, and it was unpleasant- but to Haytham? 

It was home.

He had fond memories of this place. His father, taking him to the coast.  _ See that bird, lad? That great big one?  _ He’d say,  _ That’s an albatross. They fly across oceans, again and again, but they‘ll always find their way home. Like us, huh?  _ He had peered at the bird curiously. It looked like every other gull in England, and he had been certain that he watched a BBC documentary that reported albatrosses didn’t live north of the equator, but father knew best. 

Indeed, Haytham had traveled far, but he had once again found home. 

(There was a time, however, when home was with Ziio. But that was long ago, and he was a different man.)

Connor peered at him curiously, throwing sidelong glances his way. Haytham pretended not to notice, not to care, feigned confidence like the best of him. In reality, he was a mess. He wasn’t ready, nor old enough, to have a goddamn child! 

Gist stole Connor away, to talk about God-knows-what. Shay jogged up to him and smiled.

“Everything alright, sir?” He said, cheery voice unaffected by lack of sleep. Haytham, on the other hand, was practically a walking corpse. 

“I suppose. I could use a cup of tea, and perhaps something stronger.” His arm found Shay’s waist, and it clung loosely there. 

“Is that an invitation to break into your fancy liquor cabinet?” Haytham hummed at the suggestion.

“Well I  _ do  _ have a rather fine bottle of scotch that is simply wasting away-” Without much warning nor bravado, Shay spun around and fired his gun somewhere behind them. Haytham growled and dug his own out of the holster. 

The victim laid gurgling on the ground, clutching at the blood spurting from her throat in bright red bursts. Her cream-colored blouse was stained with gore from the wound at her larynx. 

“A clean shot,” Haytham commended, “straight through the windpipe.”

Shay’s breathing stuttered. 

“You knew her?” He asked, moving to put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“Aye, I… Did.” Shay choked out. “Her name is- was- Hope.” He shut his eyes and shook his head. “I’m fine, sir. It’s for the best she’s dead.”

Connor ran over to them, gun in hand. He stopped, dead in his tracks, when he saw the body. “You… You killed her?” It wasn’t much of a question, but the boy was entitled to his shock. Haytham ignored him.

“Gist? Dispose of the body. Thank you.” 

*

_ Oh my fucking God,  _ Connor thought,  _ she’s dead! _

Hope’s blood bloomed on her shirt, drying a shade darker than her lipstick. 

Was it too late to back out?

At that moment, the realization dawned on him that, perhaps, his father was not merely a housecat but a panther, that Shay did not follow him like a lost puppy but rather a Great Dane. How much of a fight could he possibly put up against two merciless killers?

Perhaps he should have expected this. Hope wanted to kill his father, didn’t she? Was there anything wrong with taking out a threat? His morals and his brain stood opposed on the subject, but his thoughts were soon absorbed by a different topic.

Why was MI6 after Haytham anyway? He remembered something about dead agents, something else about the government, but not a damn thing about his father’s motives.

“Hey, look,” He said, practically running to keep up with Haytham’s brisk pace. “I have some questions that need answering.”

“Well, I’m sure those questions can be best answered when I am in possession of some wool socks and a good glass of Chardonnay, no?” The elder man retorted, continuing to power-walk fluidly like a middle-aged mother at the grocery store. “Goodness, I could use some Chablis… Perhaps a white Burgundy…” He mused aloud, staring off into space to better contemplate his choice of alcoholic grape juice. 

Connor grumbled and slowed his pace. He felt a presence beside him.

“Hey, kid, sorry about that.” Shay started, a finger scratching the nape of his neck. Some of his hazel-brown hair fell out of its queue. 

“It’s alright. I don’t know what I expected.” 

Shay laughed, nervously. 

“You get used to it, you know? Most of the time. But sometimes it feels like your first day on the job, when you were so scared you could barely put a magazine in.”

It was hard to imagine Shay, who was so calm and smooth, shaking like a faun on unsteady legs. 

They walked in silence for a while, pondering the other’s place in this strange, cruel world.

“Shay, can I ask something?”

The brunette nodded.

“I’ll see what I can do. No promises.”

Connor fingered the sleeve of his heavy, brown corduroy blazer.

“Why is MI6 after you guys? You and Haytham, I mean.” It felt strange calling his father by his first name, but what else was there? Dad? Shay sighed and exhaled a foggy breath.

“They have every reason to. We’re trying to bring them down, to put it simply. Let’s say your father and I don’t… approve of their techniques. Achilles is an ends deserve the means kind of guy. That’s a messed up notion when you’re dealing with lives, in my opinion. They’re too wasteful, and too dangerous. One of these days innocents are gonna get mixed up in their mess and won’t live long enough to tell the tale. We’d much rather shut it down now that wait for that day.” Shay wrapped his red wool scarf loosely around his neck. “Ah, I’m not good at explaining it. Ask Haytham, he’s the talker, here.”

Connor couldn’t say he completely understood. It could be said he was even more confused than where he had started, blissfully ignorant and chained up in Plato’s Cave. Was it not blatant hypocrisy, to declare the worth of human life than shoot down a woman without a second glance? Or was it completely fair, balanced on life’s tipping scale? 

He had met Achilles once, and was at MI6 for barely a month before he was shipped off to his father. What did he know of their methods, their values? Perhaps they were perfectly ethical (or as ethical as one could be in the situation), and Haytham was the manipulative one. Was Connor being used as a pawn, a tool? Would he be used?

Once again he fell into a fitful sleep, this time covered in burgundy sheets and the oppressive chill of a drafty old manor. The wind whistled past his windows in a conspiratorial murmur. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update, but I made a longer chapter to make up for it! I think I prefer the longer chapters and I'll most likely switch to that indefinitely. That means updates will be a bit slower (every other week instead of once a week), but we'll see. Hope you enjoyed, do tell me your thoughts in the comments!


	5. I've Seen Angels Fall From Blinding Heights

Connor woke up, haggard and weary, despite the time displayed on the clock hanging above the doorway. Ten hours was long for a teenager like him, and should have been enough to restore his energy.

-then again, how could one possibly sleep well after witnessing the gory scene of Hope’s death, a life cut short for some reason he was still unsure of. Life had been spent, that was objective, but was it worth it?

He forced himself to trudge down the hallway and stairs to the kitchen. Around him were dark hallways with honey-colored teakwood floors and Persian carpets draped over them. Various trinkets sat on tables, and paintings and other fixtures hung on the walls. Many of them had a distinctly nautical feel, especially the canvases on which naval battle and ships were depicted. They looked old, done in the Neo-Classical style, with oil paint generously slathered on. 

When he got to the kitchen, the smell of cinnamon and the sound of something sizzling on a frying pan permeated the air like the beeswax melts his grandmother always bought. She switched to candles when she realized Connor had enough common sense not to touch open flames.

Shay, it seemed, was the perpetrator, as he was humming along to Beatles song that played from a nearby radio as he (unsuccessfully) attempted to flip French toast in a skillet, and then settled for turning it over with a fork.

“Connor,” he acknowledged, his eyes focused on the food in front of him. “There’s orange juice on the fridge, and coffee on the counter. I’ll put the kettle on if you want tea. Creamer’s in the fridge.” Connor grabbed the most normal looking mug in the cabinet, and poured a decent amount. He eventually found some caramel creamer after looking through the strangely organized fridge (who the hell puts milk in a drawer? His father, apparently). Sixteen by Ringo Starr comes on the radio, and he didn't know how he knew that.

“Mm, your father hates this song. Ringo is the best Beatle, no matter what he says.” Shay slides Connor a plate of French toast, with powdered sugar and maple syrup. Afterward, he puts the kettle on the stovetop, and the air blossoms with the scent of black tea and orange. 

“Did you ever… meet my mother, Shay?” He asks, his voice still morning-hoarse. He watches a drop of syrup slowly slide down the slope of battered bread. 

“I’m afraid I didn’t. Met Haytham right after they split.” 

Connor nods and sips his coffee. He may have put too much creamer in. 

They sit in (relative) silence for a bit, with only the sound of the kettle whistling disrupting them.

“God, why are all of you so quiet? You’d think you were  _ dead _ .” 

“I thought you were dead this morning, Hayth. Sleeping like a babe, you were.”

“Shut up and get me some Advil.” Haytham’s bright gray eyes land on his son. “Oh hello, Connor. I hope you slept well.” 

*

Later that day, Connor came across his father messing around with a vinyl player in the parlor. In his pale hands, he held a purple package, the paper worn at the edges from handling.

“This was your mother’s favorite record, you know.  _ The Best of Johnny Cash _ . I never did enjoy it, at least not until recently. But... I think it’s growing on me.” He mused aloud, voice dark and syrupy like thick molasses.

Connor didn’t think it was much of a surprise. He had memories of Ring of Fire playing on the radio of his mother’s rusty pickup truck. She always sang along, her voice sweet and true, and he would try and sing along, but his four-year-old self always got the verses out of order. 

“ _ That’s an old one _ .” She would say. “ _ Even for me. Maybe that’s why your father never liked it. _ ” Toddler Connor had concluded from the apparent evidence that his father simply had bad taste, but when he viewed the records shelved in front of him (Abbey Road, ABBA Gold, Led Zeppelin III), he wasn’t sure that he agreed with the hypothesis anymore.

“I suppose you must be tired of all of this. Your plane comes in this afternoon, straight to… home,” (He hesitated before saying it) “Where MI6 or me or anyone with a gun and places to be will no longer bother you. And if they do, you know who to call.” He fingered his waistband, showing a peak of gunmetal. “Of course…”

His eyes caught Connor’s. Stormy, grey- it was like looking into a mirror.

“I had hoped that, perhaps, you might consider joining me. The plane ticket is a round trip, a week’s time from now you could be back here.”

Connor raised his eyebrow.

“Why?”

Haytham clicked his tongue and paced the room, staring ahead off himself.

“You should start looking at your options, you know. A lousy GPA, a list of suspensions, an arrest record full of assault charges, what kind of future do you think you’ll have? You could always leach off my money for the rest of your life, and I wouldn’t mind that, but I’d implore you to do something  _ better _ . More meaningful. That free training MI6 gave you shouldn’t go to waste, now, should it?” His father’s eyes shot back to him. “I do have the whole estate deeded to you in my will, you know. It’d be a shame if you didn’t know how to run it.” 

Connor stared, long and hard, and the grain of the hardwood floors. 

What was there, really, for juvenile delinquents like him? The only things he was good at were fighting and running, and that stayed true even after the man in the black suit came to the door. And here, here there were riches and power and intrigue like he’d only ever seen in dreams. The father he'd never met had sauntered into his life and given him purpose, tied up with ribbon and silk.

“I’ll think on it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haytham thinks he's still 20 and only listens to 70s/80s music tbh


End file.
